Just
by Cookie the Platypus
Summary: "I work in ways," he stated, waving his hand around in dismissal, "that are just. Then again, 'just' is such a vague term that I wonder if it honestly has any meaning at all." WARNINGS: Lots of pairings, yaoi, and various other mature themes.


**So... This is a story that is based solely on an RP room on chatzy that I got involved with. All of us were RPing together when I was like: "...You know what? This would be a cool fanfic..." So here it is! The very start of 'Just'! xD**

**Synopsis: Eirikur, Allen, and Alistair wanted freedom. Was that too much to ask for? Unfortunately, being slaves under Oliver Kirkland's rule didn't have quite the amount of leniency that they were hoping for. They plan to change that. With each slave taking a different approach, some might just find what they are looking for. And others… Well…**

**As said before, this IS based on an RP, so I hardly own anything in this story. I RP Oliver, and the rest of the credit I have to give to this wonderful group of RPers who have just been so incredibly welcoming and friendly to me... I seriously cannot give express the amount of thanks they deserve for all their magnificent work, their help, their support, and the amount of fun they just make everything! If you feel the need to thank anyone for this story, don't thank me, thank them. They were the ones who did all the work, and I just put it on paper. uwu**

**Der-Tintenfisch (On Tumblr) = Eirikur (Iceland)**

**fancycottoncandy (On DeviantArt) = Alistair (Scotland) and Matthew (Canada)**

**Cookie the Platypus (On Fanfiction) = Oliver (2P!England)**

**YumiLoveNeko (On DeviantArt) = Allen (2P!America)**

**GiroDoro777 (On Quotev) = Dylan (Wales) and Matt (2P!Canada)**

**Ukingdom090 (On Fanfiction) = Arthur (England)**

**JZFinland-1 (On DeviantArt) = Isabella (An OC)**

**kiragaaraisme (On Tumblr and Fanfiction) = Ivan (Russia)**

**WARNINGS: Language, Yaoi (male x male), Shotacon (an adult having an attraction to an underage boy), Incest (Sibling romantic relationship), ****Lemons (Smut), **Abuse, **Master/Slave kink, **and various other mature topics.

**We ARE NOT finished this RP, as of this moment. So I may need to add warnings as we go along. If there is something triggering for you, I cannot promise we will abscond from it completely. I will try and update this warning list with every arrival of a sensitive subject though, and I will put the warning in every chapter that includes it. I am incredibly sorry for any inconvenience.**

**Well, anyway! I hope you enjoy it! xD**

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Chapter 1: The Hopeless Story of a Slave

So, Eirikur would start off by saying this:

The tale of a slave was a hopeless and fruitless one.

It was a dead-end job with no pay, first of all. You worked for nothing but shelter and food, all day, every day. Weekends, you worked. Holidays, you worked. Celebrations, you worked. From dawn until dusk, and sometimes even earlier or later than that. It was a full-time job with the pay of mere pennies found in the crevasses of couches. There was no room for improvement from the job either. Once you were a slave, you were a slave for life. Until your death, you were at the mercy of the job that was shackled to your leg.

Second, you had to serve the master of the house. The one in charge. The snobby, aristocratic boss that used slaves for exactly what they were bought for: labour. Were there nice masters? Perhaps. But finding such was so incredibly rare that you would have an easier time running away and attempting to build a decent life out in the slums of the city. Masters could be downright violent, outright sadistic, unbelievably strict, and completely neglectful of the slave's needs. What the masters mostly didn't understand was that the slaves were humans with human needs. They weren't robots. A decent amount of food and water was required, as well as a lenient work load that will be flexible when health problems arise-and even when sleep is needed! Some masters worked their slaves day and night, until they collapsed and were fired on the spot for being human! It was sickening!

It was even the _label_ of a 'slave' that was horrifying. It was degrading, and the people of high-class knew it. Slaves had the stereotype that they were useless, stupid, and often couldn't do things right; even though they were the ones that did most of the work anyway! It was the _masters_ who couldn't do anything. They treated their slaves like objects, and yet, they were the ones who sat on their butts all day and practically blended in to the surroundings!

Obviously, Eirikur hated it. He detested it to no end. All of it. Every second of being nothing but an 'object'. Sold and bought and settled into this prestigious house with nobody but the master and the other slaves, only to wake up every day to live the hopeless story of a slave.

Could the slave speak up about any of this though? Of course not. Tight-lipped and stone-faced, the Icelander merely nodded to what he was directed to do, and did it. There was nothing to do about it. All in all, the legal system on this Earth was skewed. The masters did whatever the hell they wanted, and the slaves were forced to resort to nodding and obeying. Those rich people had the ability to murder, if they really wanted to. Slaves were objects. If they broke, they could be thrown out and replaced. And it wasn't as if Eirikur was the most favoured of the little group his master collected.

Yes. Eirikur was in the perfect position in his life. Sure.

At the moment, the 'perfect position in his life' appeared to be in the expanse of the living room. Exotic couches with a scarlet glow, fringed with golden ringlets as fire and smoke seemed to flow inside the fabric, and standing upon shimmering legs that sparkled just as brightly as glass in the moonlight. The coffee tables were basic, upon a first glance; but then one would trail a finger along its smooth surface and find the intricate designing of the curves and cuts along the sides, and the neat lines that swept along the waxy surface. Then there were the walls, which had a background yellow shine painted with shapes of diamonds and swirls of that deep maroon glitter. Afterwards, the floor, with a carpet sown in with delighting pictures of blooming flowers and the swirling lines of stems and peeking grass.

And Eirkur's job, at the moment? To crawl on the carpet and search for any imperfections. To keep everything looking as if it were brand new. To shine and polish and scrounge on his hands and feet to look for anything-_anything_-that could even be potentially wrong.

Oh right. It wasn't the worst job, of course. Out of all of them, Allen and Alistair were the two that did the most back-breaking work. Eirikur wouldn't complain about that. Eirikur would complain, however, that doing what his job described was just downright useless. Who would honestly need a room as clean as his 'owner' demanded?

Nobody. Exactly! That was why Eirikur gave the area a glance-over and, if everything still was sparkling as much as it was an hour ago, he would merely leave for another room. Sure, this method of working got him into trouble, at times. However, as the Icelander claimed before, there was no way someone of the right mind would notice if one hair on the carpet had gone out of place.

His master once had the audacity to exclaim that the Icelander was _lucky_ where he was though. That there were worse masters and that Eirikur should _thank_ his 'owner' for being _so_ very generous with him. Yes, there were worse masters. He knew that. Who wouldn't? There were always worse places to be, sure. But to have his master say _that_? To have the prissy, flamboyant, and sadistic Oliver Kirkland say that _he_ was the better man?

It was more than just ironic. It was downright aggravating.

But it was true. His master thought he was greater than all the others, even though he was just like all of them. Even though he was exactly what every other master was, he still claimed he wasn't. He would let out a giggle and lean back on that golden throne of his, crossing his legs and smirking down at his slaves, daring them to defy him. He was the best master to have. The words he said burned themselves inside his head. There was one little declaration, though, that made the slave utterly sick to his stomach and hopeless about his upcoming future. He was in the room when he heard the ill Briton talking that one day; cleaning like usual. The Icelander had forgotten who he was speaking to, really. He didn't really care that much, to be perfectly honest. All he caught was that one little announcement that sent his entire hopes and dreams spiraling down to hell. "I work in ways," his master stated, waving his hand around in dismissal, "that are just. Then again, 'just' is such a vague term that I wonder if it honestly has any meaning at all." A snooty giggle later, and he moved on to a completely different conversation topic. One topic to the next, tossing the used ones aside as if they didn't matter.

It mattered to Eirikur though. He said he worked in 'just' ways...

This was 'just'?

No. Of course it wasn't. It was obvious that Eirikur, nor any of the other slaves, didn't have any reason why they were forced to do something like this. They had no reason to deserve the things they were forced to do. Some were just born slaves, while the Icelander himself was sold, along with his brother, to this fate. They were slaves, for no reason of their own doing. And there was nothing that anybody could do about it.

This was 'just'.

With this, the slave let out a sigh, running a hand through his hair. He had everything he needed to clean this room. Brushes, soaps, chemicals, and tiny instruments of primping and shining use were shoved inside a bucket, off to the side where the Icelander could reach them at any needed time. However, instead of getting on his hands and knees and squinting to find even a dap of misplaced fluff, Eirikur merely scanned over the area. Was anything broken? Any large spills? Anything that would be absolutely terrible for anybody to see? The male did a full sweep of his surroundings, glancing behind couches and along bookcases, then along the floor. However, there seemed to be nothing in particular that looked extremely, extremely out of place.

With that, the Icelander flopped onto the couch and let out a heavy exhale, the cushions pressing up against the tender soreness of his overworked spine. He had some free time then, to just relax. It wasn't like his master was home at the moment anyway; how would he know if he cleaned the room or not? It looked decent. Any small problems were things Eirikur could blame on things prior to his cleaning, if he had to. Nobody would know. And chances were, his master didn't even care that much.

Well, his master didn't care about the shape of the room, he meant. If he found a problem, that crazy Brit would love to see the Icelander squirm though. Finding a punishment might be a joy too. It was obvious that he cared more about the punishing of slaves than the actual problem at hand. He had money and time. If something was out of place, it could be fixed in an instant.

However, Eirikur's silence of relaxation was short-lived when another slave sauntered into the room. A tall figure with a head with messy red locks plopped itself onto the same couch, a smirk twisting across its face as it glanced at the slave. "Working 'ard?" he teased, the thick Scottish accent interrupting through the delicate aristocratic air of the room.

The Icelander didn't feel the need to really reply. He didn't exactly speak with most of the slaves, and usually found himself not really relating to them. All of them were misfits in the house, not really seeing eye-to-eye on most subjects. Really, the only thing they all had in common was that they detested being the gum under Oliver's feet. Unfortunately, even though they saw each other every day, this mutual hatred was not enough to really get them to talk much.

"Just ye wait, kid," the Scot chuckled with a dark glint in his eye, staring off to a random corner of the room. "I ain't doing anything tat stuck up arse says… I'm done wit 'is shit! I'm going to push his buttons and end tat little paradise he lives in... Cause 'im 'ell. He's got no more time left."

This was...normal. Alistair was always declaring that he wound find the way to Oliver's end. He has basically been plotting a way to end the Brit since the very day the master brought him home. Or, so Eirikur was told. He hadn't known Alistair for so long. The Icelander was fairly new here, compared to the others.

To this, though, the younger only let out a sigh. "Don't call me kid," he answered simply, going back to leaning his head on the headrest. He couldn't really speak to the Scottish slave about this, as he found it useless. Eirikur hated it, but he had no choice in the matter. Their master would force them to conform, until death.

"He's gotta have some kind of fuckin' weakness behind that happy little mask he's got wears." Alistair glanced up, following the designs on the ceiling with that smirk of his growing, as if they were leading him to the answer. "And I'm going to crush it to pieces once I got a'old of it ye 'ear me?"

Sure. Then what? Even if they did find some sort of weakness, poking at it would probably only make the Brit angry. And with those knives he had no trouble with using...

However, talking with Alistair was like talking to a brick wall. Once he set his mind to something, he didn't change his opinion for anything. And, since Eirikur really didn't have the same brash and cocky attitude about things as Alistair did, he didn't necessarily relate to the other male. The silence between them droned out into the air just as loudly as a bell would.  
However, apparently unpleased by the silence, the Scottish slave let out a scoff, then tapped Eirikur's head. "Ye already asleep? Didn't take ye long," he teased, a snicker in his voice.

Only when the Icelander glanced up did he see that the other male hadn't tapped his skull with his knuckle like he had guess, but with an odd strand of something. Candy? Yes, there seemed to be a certain inviting shine to the vermillion-shaded piece, much unlike the other edible objects sticking around here and there. In the Scot's other hand appeared to be a bottle. Probably of scotch, or rum, or whatever other alcohol was lying around this house.

So he was looting Oliver's house, basically. That's safe.

At first, the Icelander only stared at the strand, then up to Alistair. As if answering the question he never asked, the Scot spoke up. "He ain't home, kid." With a chuckle, he waved the candy out to the teenager, nearly stuffing it into his face. "He ain't gunna find out we did shit~."

The younger only rolled his eyes, before staring at the hand. A moment later, he snatched the piece and took a bite out of the strand. "Don't call me kid," he muttered, before glancing off to another part of the room and returning to his own thoughts.

He was never getting out of here.

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**Well. It's a start. =w="**

**DISCLAIMERS (for the story, I'm not doing this every chapter): I DO NOT OWN THIS STORYLINE. This story is a contribution of ALL the RPers involved, including me, so I will NOT take full credit for it. XD Also, I don't own Hetalia, or anything related to Hetalia. The only thing I really own is my interpretation of 2P!England, but even that is based on Hetalia, so I guess I really don't own that either. xD Aaaanyway.**


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